When Darkness Falls
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: *Chapter 1 posted* The war against Voldemort is at hand and Hermione is about to find out that she's more important than anyone could have ever imagined. R/Hr romance with D/Hr friendship.
1. Foreshadow

'Lo all.  I'm just warning everyone that I've only read the first three books (I let a co-worker read Book 4 before me since I had so much school work and she assures me I'm missing the best one -_-;) and I'm pretty much a newbie to the whole wonderful Harry Potter Universe.  I'm very susceptible to ship-dom and for a while I was very pro-H/Hr then I went into this obsession with D/Hr, and now I have a dual bias for R/Hr and D/Hr though the R/Hr takes precedence (It's all Sugarquill's fault I say!).  Anyway, after reading a multitude of HP fics at ff.net and several sites along with listening to Linkin Park over and over again, I came up with this.  The beginning is a little strange, I know but it isn't really the actual beginning of the story . . . you'll see what I mean.

Right now it's just a PG rating but sooner or later that may or may not escalate to an NC-17 rating, depending on whether I decide to add a lemon scene or not.

Also, for those who have read my GW fics and are waiting anxiously for new installments:  They are coming.  Believe me ^_^

**Disclaimer:  Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to J.K. Rowling.  I'm only borrowing them for a bit of evil hehehehe.**

When Darkness Falls - Prologue

_Foreshadow_

**By Kysra**

_When darkness falls_

She stood impossibly atop the sphere tipped spire, a precariously balanced solitary silhouette against a vast, gray-black sky riddled with lightning flashes and thunder glow.  Fluid brown strands of curling hair whipped at the delicate pale skin of an exquisite, youthful face while large cinnamon eyes stared calmly out across the windswept landscape below.  She studiously ignored the turbulent air currents tearing at the billowing robes adorning her body, threatening to topple her to the distant ground, but the white hands clasped to her chest confessed her internal nervousness, bloodless fingers clutching the thin, ivory solidity of a genuine magic wand.

_Evil will vie for dominance_

Lips pursed into a small frown and chin dimpled in a way that suggested the suppression of surfacing tears, she continued her surveillance, searching for something only she could identify, waiting for a sign that was not long in coming.

A flicker against the darkened horizon, a line of black against the solid gray, the vague twinkle of red in the distance, and she knew she had not waited in vain.

"They're here," her lips moved in a useless, soundless whisper, her voice stolen by the savage gusts, the slight vocalization of the obvious destroyed by the shrieking violence of unnatural winds.

She could feel his nearness, the disturbed air prickling, snapping at her vulnerable skin and tear-filled eyes.  Her stomach ached with nausea as the rotten stench of stale Death filled her nostrils and visions of laughing skulls and dancing corpses taunted her fragile mind.

_He will try to destroy the Light, what makes us separate from him_

The black mass gathered at the thin line separating land and sky expanded into a thick band of descending darkness, sluggish molasses slithering across the shadowed green of spring grass.  

Watching with a calm she inwardly did not feel, the girl's eyes were drawn to the central figure, the leader of this Dark Army who had so terrorized the wizarding and non-wizarding worlds for decades . . . Voldemort.

He marched ahead of his troops, tall and proud, his body giving off nearly visible smoky fumes of evil as the glowing red of his eyes focused on something beyond her line of sight.  She took note of his pale, ashen skin, unkempt black hair, and dirty, war-torn robes even as her eyes mapped out the contours of his coarse, smirking face, her heart slowing to an unhealthy tempo and her breath halting altogether.

                                  _But because we are different, he will falter._

There was a movement, something bright and colorful fluttering against the dreary backdrop of stormy sky and blanketing darkness, and she gasped, her eyes breaking away from the dull ebony mass of the oncoming army to take in the image of red, green, blue, and gold cloaked figures, a vast sea of color and youth, marching defiantly toward the deadly invaders and their terrifying lord.

She wanted to scream, to wail, to cry.  She needed to be with them, to fight, to bear witness, but she couldn't.  Her heart turned to ice, the lively organ freezing in her chest, as a young man with black hair and green eyes (though the glare from his glasses made it impossible to see them clearly) at the front of the opposing forces looked back towards her, his expression unreadable, his mouth forming one word that would forever remain a mystery as he turned forward again, leaving her with nothing but a lack of comprehension, worry and heartbreak. 

_We are different in that we love_

Choking fear wrung a silent cry from her lips as Despair wrapped his frigid arms around her, enclosing her in a paralyzing embrace.  Her feet teetered dangerously upon the slick gold plate of the ball-shaped precipice that acted as her support at this great height, and she swayed with the violent wind, the loose strands of her tangling hair catching her eyes and invading her mouth.

Blinded by the sharp sting of wind and hair, she did not see the ghostly shadow rising up behind her, her ears deafened by the haunting scream of vultures repeating the familiar mantra of "He's dead!  He's dead!"  Her lips formed a silent plea, invoking the name of someone dear and possibly gone to the next world, her arms lifting and stretching out before her in a gesture of supplication and desperate need before a strong force slammed into her back like a battering ram.  

_And we will not die cowardly deaths_

And, when the realization came that she was falling, plummeting to her death blossomed in her mind, a silence fell upon the earth that was at once horrifying and somewhat pleasing.  Like a rag doll, her limbs seemed to move with a strange sort of fluid grace as the wind plucked her limp body from the unforgiving air, legs and arms floating upon the harsh, vengeful currents.  Frozen fingers tightened about the smooth shaft of her wand as her mind, easily the strongest organ she possessed, became blessedly empty of thought, totally detached from the sorry reality she had suddenly been thrust into.  No simple spell could save her.  She didn't want to be saved.

_Because I love you_

Staring up into the solid wall of angry clouds which constituted the sky, she allowed herself a fleeting wish for one more opportunity to say good-bye, to hug, to kiss, to speak, though she knew it was futile.  Closing her eyes, she prepared for the imminent meeting with the ground.

However, it was not her day to die, and just as an unexpected force had propelled her into this current predicament so did another equally unexpected blow stop her hurtling descent to the ground. As her befuddled, death clouded brain began to function once more, the confusion of continued life stirring paralyzed cells into action, she registered a cloaking warmth and strong arms around her while the spare, solid width of something beneath her and the stabbing cold of winds brought by extremely fast motion alerted her to two things:  1. Someone had saved her and 2. That same someone had caught her while riding a broomstick.

While these revelations fed themselves to her bewildered mind, she took a deep breath and allowed tired eyes to close for just a moment, her head resting against a hard chest, lulled by the assuring beat of a living heart; and for just a moment, she knew peace in this time of fighting desperation and numbing fear.  The moment was gone as soon as it had begun, however, and she opened her eyes again, only half-aware of the sea of color just below them, lifting her head and opening her mouth to thank her savior (even if she hadn't wanted to be saved in the first place.  It was only polite and didn't pay to drag others into the pit of depression she currently resided).  

Of course, opening her mouth was about as far as she got in thanking her savior since her savior was the very last person she expected to see, considering he had been presumed dead not twenty-four hours prior to this latest incident.  In light of this information and the subsequent events, all she could muster was a sort of strangled whimper before all mental functions ceased, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body fell limp within the circle of secure and gentle arms.

The Savior smiled tenderly at the girl, the expression masking the gut-wrenching fear and anguish which filled his being as her body had approached the ground, "Hermione . . . " he whispered reverently, stroking the windblown brown hair he loved so much.

 "Ron," she breathed, burrowing into his body, inhaling his scent deeply though still lost within shock induced unconsciousness, and Ron knew without doubt that this would probably be the last time he would be able to savor the feel of her next to him.

And so, together, they sailed above the conflicting armies under the dubious security of an invisibility cloak as the war they had hoped would never be, began.

_When darkness falls_


	2. Promise of the Dawn

I want to thank those people who have reviewed this story so far!  I'm so glad you liked the Prologue and I hope I can live up to your expectations ^_^  

This part takes place about 7-8 months BEFORE the prologue (which is what I meant when I said that the prologue wasn't necessarily the beginning of the story ^_^), and focuses primarily on Hermione and Draco.

**_Disclaimer:  J K Rowling is the artist whose brilliance came up with this universe and these characters.  I'm just a very crazed fan._**

When Darkness Falls - Chapter 1

_PRomise of the Dawn_

**By Kysra**

Darkness met light in the iridescent silver of the blade as jeweled obsidian and emerald sparkled with a strange but palpable malevolence.  His eyes were dull with the reflection of such ill-bought wealth and overwhelming beauty, his heart finding no joy in this precious evidence of a birthright once glorious and inspiring to such a deadened soul.  He was weary.  Broken and in agony of his cursed conscience, a terrific secret burned his tongue with truth's unquenchable flame; and yet he knew the penalty for a timely confession.

The dagger gleamed unnaturally against his pale skin, hungry and yearning for the small rivers pumping just beneath the surface, cold metal seeking the warm comfort of fresh blood.  Self-pity and a desire to escape the burdens of a mind that knew too much whispered the promise of sweet death.  He would be free of the punishments awaiting him . . . he would be absolved of his planned betrayal.  It was the only way.

Chilled marble became coated with heated droplets as the sharp bite of cool metal sliced into the tender flesh of one wrist, the dark crimson depths of liquid garnet flashing with the trembling flicker of a nearby candle.  His silver eyes became clouded with a red haze, his hand shaking and ready to press the bloodthirsty blade against his other wrist.  He determined a deeper cut this time around.

This was a satisfying way to die.  A true statement of his internal self-torture, the bad blood of a thousand festering worries flowing out his body in a cleansing fountain of angry red.  A simple spell would have been less dramatic - more efficient, granted - but utterly unworthy a death for one such as him.  No.  Father would appreciate this manner of demise.  Pissing him off was just an added bonus.

A small smile touched lips unaccustomed to such gentle expression as it occurred to him that the person he was doing this for would never understand his sacrifice . . . he would never feel the triumph in earning her gratitude . . the irony . . . She was indebted to him, and he would never have the opportunity to lord it over her.  He supposed there were worse fates, and an insane, desperate laugh threatened to choke him as the blood slicked blade cut savagely into the thick though faint blue of yet another vein.  He briefly contemplated severing his entire hand.

The laugh broke through the tight restraints formerly holding in his mirth, and the sound echoed through the dismally dark chamber.  He could feel his heart pumping faster, the increasingly erratic beat pulsing in his ears, but he was neither bothered nor afraid.  His eyes remained fixed and calm, dry and dull, though his mouth seemed to be taken with uncontrollable laughter.  There was a sort of numb fascination spreading, invading his absent sensibilities, and eyes once painted the complex shade of a coming storm gradually darkened from dull slate to flat gray.  

Glittering Serenity materialized before his eyes, a vast golden ocean stretching into infinity, reflecting bald sunlight and surrounding him with cool indifference.  Vision grew dim as the fluctuating light streams seemed to draw closer and reality swayed, distorting into a mere half-remembered dream he did not wish to return to.  There was nothing holding him here though a faint voice seemed to echo and plead within the calm chaos of numb thoughts.  _Please.  Don't die . . . don't . . _

But the voice didn't understand.  There was no conflict, no question.  Father would kill him as soon as he returned home for Christmas, but this way, he had some control over his death.  This way, he was exerting what little independence he had been able to glean from Father's dictatorial grip.  Besides, his dying now would serve a greater purpose:  at least the Mudblood would appreciate a slightly longer life.  At this point, he was certain she had more to live for than he ever had, and the letter explaining the situation should be delivered into her hands tomorrow morning.  It would give her and her little goody-goody friends time to make preparations . . . She didn't need him present for the confrontation.  No, he was resolved and would drift peacefully along the golden rays streaking past him, drawing him into a swirling vortex of Death and Life.  

He could feel his heart faltering as weary eyes closed involuntarily.  Surprisingly, sight did not leave him, and senses formerly dormant exploded into activity.  There was a rushing in his ears, a constant and rhythmic crackling of energy pulsating and throbbing against his eardrums even as the voice suddenly burst into a crescendo of muddled, complicated screams.  Skin seemed to burn with numb pain as heat smothered the cold pervading through bloodless limbs and flesh.  His nose picked the subtle fragrance of roses along with the more dominant peppermint, an underlying trace of smoke intermingled creating a decidedly pleasant scent that both provoked and calmed his shuddering mind.  There was no taste, however, no sweet resisting tang of life resting upon his tongue.  His mouth was curved downward, paling lips clamped together in a thin line of wry self-depreciation . . . a smile.  He was still smiling.  The knowledge was comforting.

Now, he knew this was right.  He was doing a good deed and surely that would count for something in the next realm, but what was that?  Another voice?  He tried to move but found his fingers and legs unwilling or unable to cooperate._  DRACO!!!_  Such vehemence!  He wondered briefly if he had imagined the panic in that voice . . . . It was different than the first voice(s), female and frantic, not begging.  He could see her there, a bolt of soft yellow light illuminating the once-dark bathroom and falling inexplicably on her.  She was pale, he noted, to a greater degree than usual; but then again, so was he.  That he could see himself lying there near her kneeling form did not alarm him.  He was much too preoccupied with watching her shaking fingers tear skirt and sleeves into binding rags before wrapping the material tightly around his bloody, sliced wrists.

Foolish girl!  Didn't she realize that such actions were futile?  He would die before her vain attempts at playing savior bore any fruit.  It was too late.  He really wished he could laugh.  There was a deep satisfaction in the paling dullness of his lips and sunken blue shadows of his eyes.  Too late.  

_You're not going to die, pureblood scum!  I won't let you!  Do you hear, Malfoy!?  You will NOT die!_  It was a hoarse yell punctuating the air, a war cry bespeaking a desperate kind of determination as short pants and half-whimpers burst from chapped lips; and somehow, the bite of her tone, the impact of her words, translated into a painful pressure on his wrists as angry fingers and trembling but forceful movements tightened the shreds of cloth around the self-inflicted wounds.  He could feel, and he wanted to curse her.

No.  He wanted to kill her.

A faint, patterned thunder seemed to grow into a great stampeding crescendo that shook even his nearly completely severed life force, and suddenly there were shadows and panicked screeches and loud reprimands as Professor Snape, Headmaster Dumbledore, and Madame Pomfrey exploded into the limited bathroom.  White hands and blunt nails were violent upon the Mudblood's shoulders as she was unceremoniously pushed and pulled away from his ghastly white corpse, and he took the time to have one last look at her before turning away from this charmed but tragic life.

She was staring unblinkingly in the direction of his almost-dead body, her gaze piercing through the thick, dark-clad adults clustered about his form.  Her brown eyes were blank, face smudged and hair matted with blood from passing a blood-stained hand across forehead and ear to clear away sweat and stray strands from those blank eyes.  He noted the flannel nightgown, the hem now ragged and the sleeves now gone, large dark and wet patches indicating where her knees had come into contact with the now-cold puddle surrounding his form and where in her lap she had laid his hand to find the slashed wrist.  She was shaking badly, though he couldn't really blame her.  It had been cold in that room even before he had started losing blood.

He smirked to himself, watching the scene below unfold.  It was surreal, watching one's own life flow away as humid vapors spreading, forming a swirling fog around the fully live occupants of the newly illuminated bathroom.  Surreal but satisfying.  There was no way they would revive him, no way.  An insubstantial and eerily silent laugh broke through his ghostly lips and . . . _Was she crying?_

It was a rather disappointing shock to him that he could actually feel shock, but as silvery pools gathered below flat brown orbs to track down blood-smeared pale cheeks . . . shock was the only thing that really registered in his pseudo-consciousness.  Why the hell would she cry over _him_?  

Before he could reason through this mystery, she broke through his thoughts by screaming.  Loudly.  It was so loud, he would have described it as nearly disembodied . . . beastly . . . _inhuman_, and then she was crawling, snarling, tearing at the robes and skin of the three people trying to save him.  Professor Snape reached for her bare arms roughly only to be held back by a sharp look from the Headmaster.  The same look was directed at Madame Pomfrey a moment later, giving the medical matron pause as they watched the silly Mudblood straddle his cooling body, grasp the collar of his robes, and throttle his limp form.

Then she was screaming at him in a language he had never heard before choking on a fearful sob, "I won't let it come true!  I won't let you . . . You can't!  You just can't!!!  I won't let you die!  I won't!  You won't win!" and then softly, "Please Malfoy . . . please don't leave us.  Please."  It was then, with that last plea shimmying past his eardrums and down the auditory nerves to his comatose brain, that he felt the first and final bolt of guilt and a drawing force compel him to go back, to live, to . . . what?  What could he possibly do if he were to go back?  He was powerless against his father.  He was about as formidable as a roach to Voldemort.  He couldn't . . . 

Damn it!!!  She was making a mockery of his sacrifice, blubbering like the useless piece of subhuman flesh she was!  There was no way in hell he was going to let her get away with it.  The bitch!  She had paused in her screaming to . . . OH FUCK!!!  She was _hugging _him!!!!  and whispering promises she would supposedly fulfill if he just came back, if he just didn't die.  He wondered briefly if she had gone starkers.  And suddenly, there was no question, no doubt, no anger or hate as he looked down upon her, only a singular and indisputable certainty that he was going to live and see her pay for this humiliation.  It would take him years to get over the disgust of being touched by a damned Mudblood much less being HUGGED by one.  He would not let this slight go unpunished.  

There was a moment of lucid awareness as he slid back into the familiar sheath of his ill-used body before darkness and light meshed unpleasantly upon the backdrop of his eyelids.  His stomach churned, his head felt light and airy, and his entire body (with much emphasis upon his wrists) wracked with unspeakable pain.  It was almost like waking up after suffering an extended period under the Cruciatus curse.  He forced down the reflex to moan his hurt, and it was a soft, nearly inaudible cough that alerted the four other people in the room to his return to active consciousness.

Honestly, if he had possessed the strength, Granger would have been thrown across the room by now, but circumstances, as they stood, allowed the Mudblood Bitch to grasp him tighter, her tears coming faster, her sobs growing louder.  She was warm, nearly feverish with grief-stricken relief, her small body trembling, shaking against his numb chest and legs.  Soft muttering gasps escaped her lips, her voice muffled by the folds of his crumpled robes, but he could have sworn she had been expressing her thanks for his life.  Again, he was vexed by the question of why the hell was she acting this way?  

He was going to kill her.  Slowly.  After he made sure Voldemort was finished, she was next on his list.  No one, especially an undeserving mudblood, defied a Malfoy's wishes.  He had wished to die quietly and escape his father, and she had very shamefully forced him to live, effectively screwing his grand scheme at escape and redemption until there was nothing left save the option of actually _facing_ his fears and _her_.  The thrice damned bitch was going to pay!!!

Eyes formerly closed to the world forever opened slowly, blearily when Granger pulled away only to smile into his face, her cheeks flushed and wet, brown eyes clouded and shining with candelight.  Strangely, her lips moved without sound as the old Headmaster and Madame Pomfrey carefully, gently lifted her by the arms from his downed person while Professor Snape eased him back to the floor with awkward care.  

His lips pulled into a frown though he what he really wanted to do was sneer at the shadows circling and tending him.  He could feel the probe and tug of Pomfrey's nimble fingers as she hurriedly checked his sluggish life signs:  pulse, breathing, and pupils.  Then suddenly he was floating, stiff and forced into magic immobility, as the good medi-witch weaved her way through the dark halls of the castle to the infirmary.  He really didn't care to know of Granger, but there was a nagging question forming in his mind which would not grant him the complete rest his shocked and blood-deprived body craved:  How had she known to find him?

_He's coming. Coming.  Step.  Again.  Another.  Forward, coming.  He's coming.  For me.  For me, Harry . . . someone.  Kill.  Die.  Hurt.  He can't hurt me.  Can't hurt them.  No.  Won't let.  Blood.  Blood.  So much . . . so little . red.  Pale blue skin.  Cold.  Frozen.  Voices.  Screams . . . help . . .help us . . I'm deaf.  The screams crawl upon naked skin.  Pale skin.  Frozen.  Naked.  Sitting.  He's coming . . . hatred . . . blood . . . No escape.  Help._

_Glass.  Smooth, cold, bare . . . Blue.  Everything blue.  No light, just darkness.  Death . . so cold . . so . . . . . . Faces.  Lines.  Blood.  Black tears fall.  Between dead fingers, rivulets, three points.  Three.  Death.  Beware.  He's coming.  For me.  For me, Harry . . . Ron.  Not Ron.  Not them.  Please, help me.  Blank face.  Three.  No eyes.  Three eyes.  Three faces.  Three.  Points . . . stop it.  Help me.  He's coming.  Fear . . Triad.  Must find . . . Death . . here.  He's coming.  Sitting, naked, on glass.  Blue.  All blue.  Black.  Red.  Blood.  Running between fingers, pale . . . black . . dead.  Eyes . . . . . Blue and blind and empty.  Not her eyes.  So much . . . blood.   Hate.  Three.  He's coming.  _

_Screaming . . . voices.  Can't hear.  Don't understand . . . Fear . . . hate.  Please.  Stop it.  Help me.  Pain and blood . . . pale . . . red . . . dead . . . So much . . . Time.  No time.  No . . . Cold.  Red.  Black.  Dead.  Three.  He's coming.  One, two, three . . . he's here . . . to kill . . . to hurt . . . to -- Hunting.  Smell.  Screams.  Fear.  He's here.  Afraid -- uncertain.  Hide.  Don't look there . . . naked, cold.  Not three . . . must one . . . One, not . . . Sitting, glass.  Cover . . . warm . . . tremble.  Breathe.  No air.  No light.  Dark.  Three.  Blood.  Fingers.  He's coming . . . for me . . For -- No.  No, please.  Help.  Someone.  Confused, scared . . _. ALONE_ -- Silver, sharp . . . coming.  Blood, red.  Death._

_Can't move.  Can't see.  Can't speak.  Still here.  He's coming.  No escape . . . He's coming.  For me.  For Harry.  For Ron . . . Draco . . . Can't . . . save . . escape -- _NO!_  He's coming!  For me . . . She screams.  Tears.  Blood.  Red.  Pale . . . blue . . . everything.  Blue and red.  Glass . . . blood, covered . . . Bare . . Vulnerable.  He's coming . . . to kill and hurt . . Draco . . must . . . Find Draco . . . Three points . . . Five -- Death.  He's coming -- must hurry . . . Can't move.  Naked.  Hide.  No escape.  Open . . . please _HELP!!!!!_  Blood.  Face.  Tears . . . blood.  Dead.  Pale.  Blue skin . . . blood.  Arms heavy -- cuts, deep . . . Draco.  Death, he's here.  Stand up.  MOVE!!!!  Go!!!!!  Three -- _**NO!!!**He's here!  He's here!!!  To kill!!!_  Don't . . . you must _**MOVE!!!!**_Warm.  Blood.  Pouring . . . Tears . . . run . . can't.  Stay -- no control.  Please.  He's coming.  To kill.  For me.  For Harry, Ron . . help._

**_DRACO!!!!!_**

****

The images were alive and running across her eyes, stimulating sleeping nerves and opening doors never opened.  The mind picture of her own body – skin a pale tinged blue, eyes a pupil-less cerulean, and hair flowing about shoulders lined with defeat and unnatural stillness – naked, bloody, trembling, and rooted to a floor of icy black glass was a macabre reminder of the latent certainty in coming danger.  Words and voices escaped immobile lips, the whiteness of bare teeth absent against the dream world of soft, malevolent blue.  There was only the scream, is name ringing like a shot across her awareness as blood-crusted feet padded softly through the unbearably darkened halls, each step granting her the illusion that she was walking into a Dream-free future, that she was leaving the Dream behind.

Silence seemed to hover over them, a sad, perplexed specter drowning all sound save the torturous cacophony of temperate hearts and stubborn dreams.  Hermione felt alone, dejected, and afraid, her breath coming in short, quiet gasps and flat, brown eyes fixed on the floor just a step ahead.  She could feel the tangible power of the good Headmaster just ahead and to the right of her forward-moving position as heat radiating from the sun; yet, nothing, not even the comfort of his grand-fatherly warmth and safety could relieve her of the cold tongues licking her skin chill and damp.

Her own voice was a chorus of horror echoing in the distorted maze-cavern of her ears and haunted mind – pitiful, searching, desolate.  It seemed there was another person, vaguely conscious, waiting here in the space behind and between her eyes, a presence both doubtful and certain, full of strength and weakness, a puzzle to be solved, a contradiction to be made truth.  There was a sense of something foreboding charting a stalwart course through her veins, soothing the molten blood of life, and freezing the stale air occupying her lungs.

It hurt to breathe, and she felt suddenly faint with fatigue and shock, her blood-dried hands rubbing at blood-flecked cheeks.  There were no more tears to cry.  She had expended all the emotion she had while Malfoy's life hung, insecure and teetering, from the lonely precipice.  In that moment between sleep and wakefulness, when his name had sprung loud and full-bodied from her bloodless lips, she had known without knowing, seen without seeing . . . She had felt his hopeless plea, the desperation and overwhelming hate, and she had found him lying in the cold bath of his own life.  In that moment, all quarrels and past grudges had ceased to exist for Hermione.  All she had known was that Draco was needed, that he didn't deserve such an ugly, gruesome death, . . . that – for good or for ill – he would change her life.

She stumbled forward, mind buried in unpleasant musings and frightening images, feet catching the awkward blood-stiff cloth of her ruined nightgown.  The descent was strangely slow and somewhat fitting since she really didn't think she could deal with much more excitement tonight.  In some distant part of her mind, she fervently hoped she would hit her head or faint or something of that nature as she desperately wanted the peace oblivion had to offer.  Of course, the two men walking ahead of her had also experienced enough excitement for one night, and would not much enjoy having to worry about the immediate well-being of two students instead of just one.

It was Snape, surprisingly, who moved first, his hands hefting her up roughly by the back of her gown, "Keep walking, Miss Granger, or do you need a book on how to do even that properly?"  His voice was gruff and mean, as always, but there was also an underlying worry, as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of her and was only falling back on familiar responses until he could figure out exactly how to react to her properly.  

It was that look of worry, deep in his eyes, buried within the timbre of his voice, that Hermione responded to; and suddenly she was crying and sputtering, clinging to the man's robes as if he were the only anchor weighted enough to keep her feet upon the ground despite the whirlwind of fear and uncertainty swirling around her, threatening to hurl her into the very oblivion she had wished to retreat to only moments before.  

It was there, in the confines of her mind, when all other parts of her were quiet that she could see herself sitting there upon the black-blue glass, pupil-less blue eyes pleading, mouth unmoving, pale blue skin crawling, hair flying, and blood splattered and running across her bare breasts, arms, and legs.  It was there that the voices seemed to dance upon and trample her false sense of security, breaking down walls that should never be broken, whispering and screaming warnings of coming danger, and begging her to do anything and everything to stop it.  It was there that she was made to understand that she was no longer her own person, that someone or something had violated a sacred trust, moving into herself, speaking with her voice when she wanted none of it.  It was there that she learned Draco was going to die, and Hermione had learned fear, the only emotion to be found in her wet brown eyes.

Fear of darkness, fear of sleep, fear of dreams – they all resided within her chest creating a heavy pressure upon a heart already strained with the aftermath of deep panic.  She had been scared to see Draco lying there as Death warmed over, but she was even more afraid of how she had known he was lying there in the first place, cut, bloodied, and dying.  

Hermione clutched tighter at black robes that smelled like sweet chamomile and bitter mint with a hint of coffee, wanting some degree of comfort but knowing comfort could only come from herself.  She felt a hand smooth her blood-stiff hair and turned her head to give a wet pleading look to the Headmaster before launching herself at him and burying her face in his robes, her trembling arms wrapped around his waist as his affection and concern flowed into her.  He whispered words into her ear, a calm warm wind blowing across a mind haunted by too many unpleasant images and sounds, and suddenly she felt weak and useless, her legs failing as her head tipped back and her breathing evened out in a fit of sleep.

Dumbledore kept his grip on the girl steady and firm as he beckoned Severus with his eyes.  He had finally verified what he had only thought was a momentary flight-of-fancy on his part and with knowledge came a sudden need to research and discuss, but first Miss Granger should be returned to her room until he could explain the rather unsettling scene that had unfolded just minutes ago.

"Take her," the venerable wizard said in an even voice that did not betray his worries, "Take her back to Gryffindor then come to my office."

"And Young Malfoy?"  Snape inquired as he hoisted the sleeping girl into his arms.

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, "He is taken care of for the moment.  There are more pressing matters to be concerned with."

They parted ways then, and Snape was left to wonder at the events of the night.  It was certainly not routine to have a young girl beating down your door in the wee hours of the morning screaming that she needed help, that the young man she had always strongly disliked was dying, that she knew time was running out, that you were needed NOW!!!  And as he glanced down to make sure she was still asleep, his feet finding their way through darkened halls with familiarity, he was startled to find open and unblinking pupil-less cerulean eyes staring back at him.

The chair was rough and hard beneath her, but she sat there as she had for the past week and read to him.  Her voice was sharp, steady, and clinical but the eyes that flickered between the words printed on the page and his face were glazed, concerned, and scared.  He had been asleep for a week and every day of that week she had plopped herself down, watching him and waiting between the time of her last class and curfew.  It was boring and exhausting but she persisted, willing him to open his eyes, hoping there would be no permanent damage, praying she had – in fact – gotten him help in time.

The dreams had not stopped, and only being in his presence seemed to quiet the racing voices slowly devouring her mind.  She could barely concentrate on mundane things anymore, and Harry and Ron had begun to notice the subtle changes in her behavior.  It seemed her entire body was off-balance.  She was anxious and tired, hungry but unable to keep anything down; and she felt the acute need for fresh air and sunshine but the pull of this room and its comatose occupant was too strong to ignore.  

Setting her book down for the moment, she smiled at him as he slept thinking that he looked peaceful without the sneer she was so familiar with.  Raising a hand to smooth back his hair, her mouth formed the words of a one sided conversation, informing him of the day's events.

"You know, you really need to wake up.  Pansy looks absolutely lost without you."

No response.

"The Headmaster has written to your father . . . I don't know if he's going to come or not, but if it helps you to wake up . . . " she signed at the lack of reaction even if it wasn't expected, "There's going to be a Halloween Ball.  Only fifth, sixth, and seventh years are allowed to attend.  The Great Hall was buzzing with the news.  I think it's ridiculous.  There are so many things that are more important, but I suppose they figured such festivities would keep morale up."

Her eyes never left his face even as she snorted and gave him a wry grin, "You probably think I'm silly . . . or daft.  Sometimes I think I'm silly and daft.  But that doesn't matter.  You have to wake up.  Please Draco.  I need to know I reached you in time."

A pause.

"Your father . . . he's, he's blaming the school, trying to shut Hogwarts down by convincing the Ministry that Dumbledore is poisoning our minds.  You would probably be highly amused if you could hear me.  You would probably be simply tickled if Hogwarts _were_ shut down on your account . . . at least, that's what I used to think."

She sighed again, taking his hand in hers, "I'm sorry.  About everything.  When I got that letter . . . the one that you sent the day after, well, it really opened my eyes to many things.  I know you aren't heartless even if I still think you're a prat.  If you were heartless, you would not have been willing to give your life to spare me some time.  I don't fully understand why you think Voldemort would be after me, but . . . whether it was care or just an opportunistic choice doesn't matter.  I thank you for the thought though I do not agree with your methods."

More silence.  She was so sick of the silence.

"Please Draco.  Just one word.  That is all I ask.  Just.  One.  Word."

And suddenly, there was another voice, hoarse, soft, and blessedly real, that broke the strangling silence, "Muuudbloooood . . ."  He coughed and blinked, and Hermione was beside herself with relief.

"Draco!"  She stood up, her book falling noisily and unnoticed to the floor.  Her hands touched the bed but did not dare touch him for fear it was another damn dream just teasing her.  She wanted answers and he was the only one who could give them to her, but first . . .

"Madame Pomfrey wants you to drink this."  Hands shook slightly as she pressed a cup filled with some sort of bitter smelling concoction to his cracked lips.  

He swallowed obligingly, deciding his thirst was much stronger than his need to separate himself from the meddling bitch leaning over him.  It tasted awful, like bean curd and lemon juice with red pepper, and it took every shred of awakening control he had to keep the damned stuff inside his stomach.  

"What was that?  Poison?  I'm disappointed Granger, and here I thought you were all love and roses without the thorns."

Hermione frowned at him, "If I were out to kill you Malfoy, I certainly would not have made a raving lunatic of myself to help save your life."

His narrowed eyes made her squirm, "Why did you save my life?"  Her tears had haunted his coma-induced visions, her screams echoing, trapped within his head.  He had been a captive of his own guilt, shame, and anger for an entire week, and he felt cranky and out-of-sorts.  She would pay.

"I'm not quite sure."  She looked worried as she sagged against the bed, her arms coming up to rub warmth into her body, "I just knew . . . and I needed to do something."

"You mourned for me.  You cried.  I can still hear your fucking screams.  You had no right to touch me with your filthy –"

The slap seemed loud and hollow and hard between them, her hand paused in mid-air as his head flung to one side, eyes wide and disbelieving and hurt for a fraction of a second.  He lashed out at her, his arm shooting out with a crowning fist ready and aiming for a solid connection until the stark white of the bandages caught his attention.  

Thin-lipped and trembling with suppressed fury, Hermione's unblinking stare focused on the bandaged wrist stretched out towards her, "The scarring will be severe," she reported clinically, "The knife you were using was bewitched."

"I was aware of that.  Wounds made by that dagger are supposed to be resistant to any sort of healing."  His voice sounded empty even to his own ears, unfeeling, and a distant part of him wondered what had happened to make him so desperate.  _Voldemort_, he answered himself, _that fucking bastard's ruined everything . . . _

Hermione reached out to him tentatively, her hand resting softly upon the bandages he was studying so intensely, "Why did you –"

"Attempt to kill myself?"  Dull gray met glazed brown calmly, "You have the answer."

Hermione did not move her hand, and Draco did not seem to notice it was even touching him, "I don't understand.  It's Harry Voldemort is after, not me.  Why would you think that I would need time to prepare?  And prepare for what?  Voldemort probably doesn't even know I exist."

The potion Madame Pomfrey had prepared for him was working fast, urging his body to waken, provoking the release of pent up energy from a week's worth of sleep and forced rest, "Please, Granger, you further disappoint me.  Did you honestly think that Voldemort wouldn't know everything about Potty's loved ones?  He's had your name in his little black book since his official return . . . possibly even longer."

She blanched to his satisfaction, her brown eyes closing as she took in air and let it out slowly, "That still doesn't explain anything.  If he does, indeed, know of my existence and my relationship with Harry, then he certainly also knows that Ron is the one Harry would miss the most.  The Tri-Wizard Tournament in fourth year settled that question."

Draco was more than a little unsettled to find himself curious as to why she did not show the smallest measure of bitterness at the revelation.  He had always thought it was her secret wish to be Potter's favorite, to have the spotlight of his fame fixed upon her in addition to the praises sung of her intelligence.  To acknowledge she was the second . . . well, it just wasn't something he could comprehend, to acknowledge and accept the reality that she wasn't the center of Potter's universe, that the Weasel was the more important best friend.  It was damn strange.  Did the girl have no selfish bone in her body?

Measuring brown eyes leveled on him in a decidedly insulting manner, "You're hiding something.  Be honest, Malfoy, for once in your life, and tell me what is going on."

"Honesty?  What makes you think I haven't been honest all along, Mudblood."

"Falling back on old insults?  Whatever it is you're hiding must be quite bigger than I originally thought."  Her damn voice was still clinical, almost unfeeling, a sharp contrast to the screams still zinging through his head.

"Quite," he affirmed before smirking unpleasantly, "but I think I deserve a little honesty in return if I am to be honest, Granger."

"Very well, Malfoy.  I have nothing to hide."  She looked ever so confident, and Draco wanted to yell in her face for being so damned sure of herself.  That bitch.

The smirk never left his face, and Hermione could clearly see the hatred reflected in his gray eyes.  Those eyes haunted her, all glassy and lifeless, every single night.  Violent, accusing gray eyes, "Why were you so adamant about saving me?  Only a blind person would not see that I _wanted _to die."

"Maybe I thought you deserved to suffer living just a little longer."

"Maybe you're a mudblood bitch who doesn't know how to respect the wishes of her superiors."

Her face puckered then, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, as she lowered her hands to her sides, fists white-knuckled and tense, "You are a selfish bastard."

Draco's smirk widened, "You honor me with your crass language, really."

Gritting her teeth to the point pain blossomed in her head, Hermione turned smartly on her heel with every intention of leaving and letting him sit there all wounded and lonely and pathetic, but she only got so far as two steps before she realized he had _wanted_ her to react that way.  He had wanted to rile her, to make her sorry she had cared for even a fraction of a second, to push her away.

She stood there, her back to him, eyes wide and mouth parted as her breath wooshed in and out at a quick pace.  Her mind had resurrected the sound of her own screams from that night, the begging and pleading, the orders and reprimands . . . the very voice of desperation and fear, and she suddenly knew what she had to do.

"Honestly, Draco, I don't know why I want . . . needed to save you.  You didn't deserve a death like that.  No one deserves a death like that, no matter your wishes or reasons.  No one has the _right_ to make that kind of choice."  

There was something in that soft, controlled voice that spoke to Draco, something that revealed to him the secret anxiety she had experienced from seeing his temporary-corpse lying silent and unmoving in a pool of blood.  He didn't say anything for a long moment, and when he did, his voice was equally quiet and controlled.

"How do you know what I deserve?"

A strange warmth seemed tingle in her arms, from the center of her fisted palms to her locked elbows, "I don't, but you didn't deserve a death like that."

_Why. Does. She. Care._  He thought not for the first time, but before he could enter into a mental diatribe on her unworthy background and foolish loyalties, he noticed something that chilled the remaining blood coursing through his damaged veins.

"Granger?"

Hermione wrapped her arms around her midrift, feeling the warmth spread from arms to stomach as she did so.  Vision blurred around the edges, she could hear Draco's voice echoing and distant, the repeated inquiry of her name sounding with a faint hint of panic.  The warmth seemed to be intensifying, layering over itself until it was no longer merely warm but hot and then searing, expanding until it was dripping past her waist and down to her knees, irregular and uneven.

_Look_, the voices told her, _Look and you shall see._  So she heeded them as she had that night a week ago when panic had set her mind on fire and given her the energy to save a life and looked at the palm of her left hand to find streams of blood flowing between her parted fingers, meeting and twisting at the center to form a bright crimson triangle.

_ Between dead fingers, rivulets, three points . . . _

_Beware the Triad._

She stared dumbly at her fingers and the triangle for a few more moments, listening to the distant echoes of whispered dream-voices and the fevered screams of Draco Malfoy, and wondering what it could mean.

"Damn it Mudblood, answer me!"  He really shouldn't get up.  Really he shouldn't.  After all, he had just awakened from a week's worth of inactivity, just begun recovering from losing a life-threatening amount of blood, and just held the most exasperating, emotionally taxing conversation of his life.  He really shouldn't get up.  But she was just standing there, stiff and unresponsive, blood dripping from her arms to the floor, pooling around her feet.

_Beware . . . He's coming._


End file.
